Tell Me No Secrets
by bloodwrites
Summary: AU. An unknown assailant targets Cal's family, with devastating results. With the help of the rest of the team, can he find the perpetrator and put what's left of his world back together again? Callian all the way, kids. T for language and adult themes, slipping toward M in a couple of later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

My first Lie to Me fic... And probably a terrible idea, because I should be writing a novel - and I really told myself I couldn't possibly take time out to write fanfiction, but then this story wouldn't leave me alone. I waited a week, and it still wouldn't leave me alone; then, I figured I would just keep writing it on my own and maybe, eventually, it would just... go away. But now I'm 20K words in and it's still not leaving me alone, so... Yeah. I'm posting it.

AU. The story takes place around the beginning of the first season, except that Zoe and Cal are still married and Emily is a little younger than she was when the series actually started. Standard disclaimers apply: I own nothing, no copyright infringement intended. T for strong language.

CHAPTER ONE

"Are you ready yet?" Zoe Landau peered into the bedroom, frowning. Cal glanced up from shaving. He didn't have to be an expert in facial expression analysis to read her annoyance. "We were supposed to leave ten minutes ago. Emily!" she called over her shoulder. "We're leaving."

"Foster's picking me up—I told you that," Cal said. He cringed inwardly at the flash of temper in her eyes.

"No, actually, you _didn't _tell me that. _Emily!_" she repeated, shouting now.

Emily appeared in the doorway a moment later, big brown eyes that much bigger at her mother's tone. "You don't have to yell—I heard you."

At twelve years old, his daughter already had a sense of order about her that Cal couldn't quite believe, given the loins she'd sprung from. Of course, he reasoned, that was probably exactly why she was so damned calm—she was the only one in the whole house who could keep her temper.

"When is Gillian getting here?" Zoe asked. The way she said his partner's name always made Cal uneasy; like she was uttering a bloody epithet. He stifled a sigh, preparing for battle. This was exactly why he hadn't said anything earlier.

"She'll be here any minute," he said. "We've got a meeting on the other side of town. I didn't want you to have to go out of your way, darling."

"Yes, I'm sure that's exactly the reason you didn't say anything, Cal. You're so thoughtful."

"I did say something!" he lied. "What, you want me to write you a bloody letter next time?"

"Guys?" Emily pleaded. "Do you really have to do this now?" Instantly, Cal felt badly. Wasn't this exactly what he used to hate about his own parents? Well—second only to the drinking and the beatings and his mum's suicidal tendencies.

"Sorry, love," he said. He wiped the last of the shaving cream from his face, went to his daughter, and kissed the top of her head quickly. Zoe was still steaming, but she managed to put a lid on it for the moment, for the sake of their daughter.

Lately, it felt like all they did was put a lid on it for Emily's sake.

"We're going to be late," Zoe said. She grabbed Emily's hand. "Come on, sweetie. Let's go."

"You're not coming?" Emily asked Cal.

He shook his head. If looks could kill, Zoe would have put him six feet under just then. "No, darling. Gill's gonna pick me up. Meeting 'cross town—you know, bringing home the bacon and all that."

"Oh… Well, tell her I said hi."

Zoe didn't say a word. She headed for the exit, Em's hand still in hers.

"I don't get a kiss goodbye then, love?" Cal called after his wife.

She paused at the door to flip him off. Cal frowned. He was working on his temper—_really _working, not just saying it for show. If he wanted this marriage to work… and he did. Despite everything, he desperately wanted his family to stay together. Zoe might drive him bonkers, but he was still mad about her. For just a second, he tried to put himself in her place.

What would he do, if the roles were reversed?

He knew exactly what he would do. If his wife had some gorgeous co-worker chauffeuring her all over hell and back, he'd lose his ever-loving mind.

Right.

He took a deep breath, put his pride on the backburner, and strode after her. This was the price you paid for marrying a bloody gorgeous lawyer with a hellcat's temper.

Zoe was already out the door by the time he got downstairs. He ran after her, stopping halfway down the front walk, and stood there in the freezing February air in an undershirt, trousers, and no shoes.

"Zoe," he said.

Zoe waved Emily into the car. Cal hated the way his daughter obliged, watching them both warily—like she expected them to tear each other's heads off right there on the street.

"You want to go out tonight?" he asked. "Take Em and get a good dinner—just the three of us. Maybe catch a movie after?"

"Are you sure you won't be too busy with Gillian Foster?" The anger in her eyes annoyed the piss out of him, but he saw what was underneath enough to keep his own temper in check: Hurt. Suspicion. Maybe the slightest hint of fear.

He took a step closer, putting on his best contrite face. "Come on, love—give us a kiss. I'll be home by five."

"I don't know if I can make it."

"Well, how about you try, and I'll try, and maybe we'll get a meal together by midnight." She didn't say anything. He took another step toward her. Pumped his eyebrows, taking her hand. "I'll make it worth your while, gorgeous."

She sighed. Rolled her eyes. The twitch of her lips, the softening at her brow, were all he needed to know he'd swayed her. "I'll try," she said.

"That's all I ask. I'll see you tonight."

He kissed her, there in his bare feet in the front yard with the nosy neighbors looking on and Em waiting in the car, watching their every move. "I love you," he said.

Zoe grimaced. "I love you too, Cal. Though God knows why, most days."

She got in the car just as Foster drove up. Cal watched them drive off as his partner strode up the walk.

"You're not dressed," she said unhappily.

"Nothing gets past you, does it, Foster? Just need shoes and a tie, and I'll be set. Two minutes."

She glanced at her watch and nodded, following him inside the house. He ran up the stairs, leaving her in the kitchen. There were still dishes on the table; a box of cereal open on the counter. Gill took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. This was the kind of chaos she and Alec had never really experienced—_family _chaos.

Well… with the exception of a blissful fifty-seven days nearly a year ago, the abrupt end of which had nearly killed her. She pushed the thought from her head and busied herself putting dishes in the dishwasher and re-sealing the cereal box. She put the butter in the fridge. Thought of the look on Cal's face when she'd driven up today. He and Zoe were fighting again—something they did on a nearly daily basis these days. Which meant he wouldn't be in the best frame of mind to meet with the lawyers currently waiting across town for them.

She sighed. She loved her job; loved the people she worked with (including Cal Lightman); loved the things she learned and the difference she made in people's lives… But every so often, she couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to work for someone just a little less brilliant and a little more… traditional, in his thinking.

"You said two minutes, Cal," she called up the stairs. "If we're late—"

Cal appeared at the top of the stairs, shoes on, tie undone. "I can't get my bloody fucking noose tied right."

"Come here," she said patiently. He flashed a grin, sauntering down the stairs toward her.

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around, Foster."

"Funny, I thought it was my advanced degree, people skills, years of study in the realm of vocal analysis, and the fact that you have no business acumen whatsoever."

"Well, sure—those are perks," he said with an amiable nod. He stood in front of her, hands at his side. "It's mostly this, though. And your legs, of course."

"Of course," she said dryly. She finished tying his necktie, noting the furrowed brow; the tension in his mouth. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fantastic, Foster. Come on, let's go. I promised Zoe I'd make it home for dinner tonight."

She looked after him as he strode out the door. It was pointless to remind him that, of the half-dozen times he had made a date to have dinner with his family at home recently, Zoe was invariably the one who had cancelled at the last minute. For as long as Gillian had known Cal—nearly six years now—Zoe had been his blind spot. She didn't see that changing anytime soon.

Of course, Gillian reminded herself, who was she to talk? She was in love with a former cocaine addict perpetually on the brink of relapse. When it came to romantic partners, it seemed both she and Cal wore blinders.

"Are you coming, or are you just going to stand back there staring at my ass, Foster? I thought we had an appointment."

She shook her head, pulling herself back to the present. Of course.

Time to get to work.

* * *

"So, tell me again who the git is we're meeting with this morning?" Cal asked once they were in the car.

Gillian pulled away from the curb too slowly—as she was prone to do—and he forced himself to resettle in his seat. She glanced at him, lips quirked in amusement. "The 'git' needs us to confirm their key witness's testimony—which will put notorious crime boss Vinnie Rigatti and his crew out of business and in prison for the rest of their lives."

"How could I forget?" he said, frowning. "Nothing I like better than starting the day off reading a Neanderthal while he looks at pictures of naked dead girls…"

"Did you talk to Reynolds about beefing up security for the next couple of weeks?" she asked.

He stretched out in his seat, shaking his head. "No need. I told you—these guys won't even know we're involved, Gill. And if they do, it'll only be in the eleventh hour—which is why we're meeting them at the safe house instead of our office."

"They have ways of finding these things out."

"Well, so do I," he said. He waved his hand dismissively. "Forget it, Foster. It's all under control."

The Beltway was backed up when they got on. Cal twitched and stretched and fretted for a few seconds before he contented himself fiddling with the radio. It took another twenty minutes before they started moving again. Sam Cooke sang softly, and Cal contentedly hummed along.

Up ahead, he caught sight of a silver Prius weaving effortlessly—if a bit aggressively—through traffic.

"Isn't that Zoe and Em?" Foster asked.

If he'd been driving, he would have raced right up to her—would have driven alongside, just to get a rise out of his wife. But Foster was at the wheel. Not only was she not a fan of daredevil stunts, Cal figured Zoe would run them right off the road given half a chance.

They hung back—Cal watching, Gill focused on traffic. Zoe always listened to NPR on the way to work; Gillian didn't care for it. Neither did Cal, to be honest. When he drove Emily to school, they sang along to classic rock while he tested his daughter's musical knowledge. Which was impressive, for her young age. Zoe said NPR was a better way to get blood flowing to the brain. Cal would take the Stones over economic summits and melting ice caps any day of the week.

He realized after a moment that Foster was talking to him, but he wasn't really paying any attention—something about the meeting today, and how important it was. How they needed this account, so he'd better put his best foot forward.

He was too busy watching his car up ahead, though. Zoe was half a mile ahead of them, no more now. A black SUV drove alongside the Prius. Something about the scene bothered him—though he couldn't place what, exactly. But their car… Something there.

A knot formed in his stomach.

"Cal—are you listening to me?"

He got out his cell phone and dialed Zoe, that knot tightening.

"I'm not mad anymore, Cal—let it go," Zoe answered.

"The car driving all right today, love?" he asked.

There was a pause on the line. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. There's an SUV next to you—"

"What? Where the hell are you?" she demanded, half-annoyed, half-amused. "Are you following me now?"

"Listen to me," he said. "The right tire in your rear end —"

What came next happened in a sort of slow motion/fast motion blur that Cal couldn't make sense of. It started with a sudden listing of the Prius to the right. Zoe veered into the next lane. Cal's stomach flipped inside-out. Then, he saw the flash of steel from the SUV window—on Zoe's side. Right next to her.

Zoe screamed on the line. He could hear their daughter shout something.

Cal dropped the phone, slamming his foot down on an imaginary brake while Gill swerved and then, in an instant… Everything happened at once.

The flash of steel. A burst of gunfire. The rear tire on the Prius exploded, ahead of them and two lanes over. Someone in the SUV kept firing, and Cal shouted for Gill to stop and let him out, his voice hoarse and his stomach lodged in his throat. The Prius skidded out of control across three lanes of traffic. The SUV kept driving away from the scene, while cars in all directions slammed on their brakes. He heard the squeal of tires, the crunch of metal behind them, but Cal couldn't take his eyes off his wife's car.

The Prius glanced off the side of a Ford Fiesta, gaining momentum in a backward spin. Gill came to a complete stop, their own car miraculously unscathed, past the rumble strip and onto the median on the left side of the highway. Cal was out of the car before he even knew what he was doing—watching, watching, watching while the Prius skidded, hit another car, and rolled. He stood there frozen while other cars squealed to a stop behind. The car containing his wife and daughter—containing his entire life—rolled one more time before it finally came to a stop, upside down, a quarter of a mile away.

TBC

And... That's chapter one. Chapter two will be posted on Sunday. I'd love to hear your thoughts - especially since this is my first LTM fic! Are the voices ringing true so far? Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

_The flash of steel. A burst of gunfire. The rear tire on the Prius exploded, ahead of them and two lanes over. Someone in the SUV kept firing, and Cal shouted for Gill to stop and let him out, his voice hoarse and his stomach lodged in his throat. The Prius skidded out of control across three lanes of traffic. The SUV kept driving away from the scene, while cars in all directions slammed on their brakes. He heard the squeal of tires, the crunch of metal behind them, but Cal couldn't take his eyes off his wife's car._

_The Prius glanced off the side of a Ford Fiesta, gaining momentum in a backward spin. Gill came to a complete stop, their own car miraculously unscathed, past the rumble strip and onto the median on the left side of the highway. Cal was out of the car before he even knew what he was doing—watching, watching, watching while the Prius skidded, hit another car, and rolled. He stood there frozen while other cars squealed to a stop behind. The car containing his wife and daughter—containing his entire life—rolled one more time before it finally came to a stop, upside down, a quarter of a mile away._

Chapter Two

Racing to the site where his wife and daughter were trapped in their obliterated Prius, Cal narrowly missed getting hit twice. There was snow on the ground—he slipped once and went down hard, then scrambled to his feet again, oblivious to the tear in the knee of his trousers or the blood that seeped through. He was dimly aware that Foster was somewhere behind him, maybe shouting to him, but he paid her no mind. He didn't imagine she really expected him to, anyway.

The Prius and the Fiesta it had collided with had landed mere feet from one another, though the Fiesta was right-side up. A man, his face bloodied and eyes dark with shock, stumbled from the driver's seat. Cal ignored him. Five feet from the Prius, he could hear his daughter's screams. Somewhere in the distance came the sound of sirens. When Cal finally reached the wreck, he got down on his belly on the snow-covered ground and peered into the driver's side window. He could smell smoke, and realized vaguely that it was coming from the other car; the acrid stench of burned rubber and fried electrical… whatzits, told him that fire was imminent.

He forgot about all that the moment he focused on the scene inside the car, though.

He forgot about everything—how to move, how to breathe, how to think.

Zoe stared out at him from the other side of the shattered driver's side window, upside down, suspended by her seatbelt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that the air bags hadn't been triggered despite the violence of the crash, but he pushed that thought aside. Later, he would track down the manufacturer and string them up. Kill them with his bare hands. But now… He swallowed hard, and refocused.

His wife's face was a bloodied mess—some from the accident, but the bulk from what looked like a bullet wound at her right temple. Her eyes were open. Wide. Terrified. Zoe didn't do vulnerable—she wasn't capable of fear. He hadn't even thought it was in her DNA.

"I'm going to get you out, Zo," he said. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice was strangely calm. Zoe shook her head. He could read the pain in her face, even at that slight movement. Tears leaked from those big, expressive eyes of hers.

"You have to get Emily," she said.

On the other side of the car, Emily was crying—on the verge of hyperventilating, her hands clutched 'round the strap of her safety belt as she strained to see past her mum to her father.

"I'm getting both of you, darling. You just need to take it easy. The ambulance will be right along." This time, his voice didn't sound so calm. He realized that he hadn't even thought to call for someone, and hoped silently that Foster had had the presence of mind to do so.

"Dad?" Em screamed it—pain in her voice that shot straight through him. His reaction to that pain was the most primal thing he'd ever felt in his life—he'd never experienced anything so powerful. Zoe looked at him, eyes pleading. Blood trickled from the corner of her lips.

"Cal—please. You can do this," she whispered. "You have to do this. Take care of her… please."

The smoke was thicker now, and he could feel heat somewhere close—flames, or damned close to them, from the car beside them. Someone screaming. _It's going to blow,_ he realized, fighting panic. _Sweet Jesus, the whole fucking thing is gonna go up in smoke. _

There should have been more time. More time to say what he needed to say; to apologize for all the worthless shit he'd pulled, back when he'd thought they would have decades to get their marriage back on track. He choked back tears and blind panic, and reached inside the mangled car. He took her hand.

"You're my girl, Zo," he whispered. "You…"

The car shifted suddenly with the force of a burst of flames in the other car. Emily screamed. Zoe shut her eyes, tears leaking from the corners now. "Go," she mouthed to him.

He nodded, choking on the pain and the impossibility of the choice he was making. He let go of his wife's hand, stood, and wasted no time taking stock of the scene. Instead, he ran around to the other side of the car. Once again, he got to his stomach and peered inside.

"You're all right, sweetheart," he said to Emily.

She wasn't all right, though—any idiot could see that. A deep gash in her forehead leaked blood so thick that it ran into her hair, gravity working backward since she was upside down. There was a bullet hole in her right shoulder. Most concerning of all, though, was the way the front end of the car had crumpled, pinning her legs inside the vehicle.

"You've gotta get mom," she said. Her breath came in desperate gasps.

"I know, love—I'll get her. I want you to be a brave girl, now—you hear me? I'm going to cut away the seatbelt and we'll get out of here."

"My leg's caught," she sobbed. "I can't—"

"Emily," he said sharply.

The tone worked. She snapped to, looking at him with sudden understanding in those wide, gorgeous eyes.

"Listen carefully to me, love," he said. "I'm getting you out. But we need to move quickly, and I need you to do everything I say. All right?"

She nodded silently, lip quivering.

"There's a good girl."

The sirens were louder now, but he couldn't figure out why the fuck they were still so far away. He assessed the scene, fighting to stay calm.

"What do you need?" someone asked from over his shoulder.

Foster.

"Zoe…" he began. Gillian shook her head—one quick motion, and something rotten lodged itself in his throat. It didn't take an expert to read her face just then: Sorrow. Pain. Pity.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "She's..."

"Right," he said quietly. He struggled to refocus. "I need to get Emily's seatbelt off. Where the fuck are the paramedics?"

"There's another accident farther back—a pile-up, cars trying to avoid this. A school bus…"

Jesus Christ.

He was on his own.

"Cal?" Gill said. Her voice was eerily calm. "What do you need?"

_Because you can do this—_that's what her eyes said. He nodded, determined now.

"I've got to get the seatbelt off."

Gillian handed him a knife—god only knew where she'd gotten it, but Cal wasn't about to ask questions. Emily wasn't looking at him anymore, her attention focused instead on Zoe. Zoe, bloody and motionless just a foot or two away.

"Mom? Dad—you have to help her—"

"I will, sweetheart," he promised again. "But I need you to help me here for a minute. Look at me, darling."

She did as he told. One pupil was dilated, the other the size of a pin. His stomach turned.

"That's good, Em." He reached through the window, paying no attention to the heat from the other car; no mind to the glass slicing into his flesh.

He cut the seatbelt away carefully. As soon as it was clear, Emily shifted. With the belt no longer holding her in place, she started to fall to the floor of the car. She screamed when the metal pinning her leg caught, digging her nails into his shoulder to steady herself. Cal reached in farther, desperately trying to hang on to her—to take some of the pressure off. He took stock, frantic. He could hear the fire now. Could feel the flames. It didn't matter to him, of course; if he didn't get Emily out of here, there was no way he wanted to live, anyway.

Suddenly, Gillian was on the ground beside him.

"Hey, Em," she said calmly.

Emily sniffled. "Gill," she whispered. "I'm scared."

"I know, honey," she said. She rested her hand on Cal's arm, squeezing gently. "We're going to get you out, but it might hurt a little."

Gillian eased in until her mouth was close to Cal's ear. This close, he could feel her heart pounding; could hear the tremor in her voice.

"The other car's going to blow, Cal—we have to get her out. You have to do whatever it takes."

A split second of panic was all he allowed himself before he nodded. He surveyed the scene, desperate to get a clear fix on what he was facing. They were upside down. Right now, the only thing keeping Emily from falling on her head—or getting out—was the dashboard, which was smashed so far forward that her right leg was pinned. It was bleeding heavily, but it was crushed, not impaled—he could get her out. He just had to maneuver it right.

"All right, sweetheart, I want you to move over," he said. He didn't give her a chance to do any such thing, though, before he slid through the window and into the car, grateful for his lean, wiry build.

"Cal!" Gillian shouted. He paid her no mind. Instead, he crawled over Emily, pushing Zoe aside—trying desperately not to think of her lack of response; the fact that, already, this didn't feel like his wife beside him.

He braced his body against the seat and his feet against the dash, trying to find some kind of leverage in such a topsy turvy world. And then, he pushed with every ounce of strength in his body.

Nothing happened.

He kept at it, thinking of all those cases: Mothers who'd lifted cars, fought off attackers. If he was Zoe, he could do this. She might not be the best mother on the planet, but his wife would save their daughter, in his place.

He gave another mighty push, grunting with effort while Gill pulled and Emily pushed and her leg was suddenly, beautifully, miraculously free.

Gillian held to the girl's arms while Cal carefully pushed until she was out of the car. He scrambled after her, forcing himself not to look back.

Right now, he couldn't afford to look back.

Outside the car, he got to his feet and took Emily from Foster, picking his daughter up easily. She trembled violently in his arms as he hurried away.

"You have to go back and get mom," she said. The terror, the pain, in her voice tore at him. "What are you doing? You can't leave her."

He had no idea what to say. What the hell _could _he say? Anything would come back to haunt him, he knew. For the rest of her life, Emily would know the truth: That he couldn't save them both.

And so he kept moving.

Emily screamed in his arms. Cried. Fought. Hit him. Cal kept his head down and his arms locked tight around his small daughter as he and Foster ran. They'd made it barely ten feet before another explosion rocked the scene, and both cars were engulfed in flames.

TBC

_Clearly, things are dire. Next chapter will be up on Wednesday. Reviews are always appreciated- Thanks for reading! _


	3. Chapter 3

_Here it is, as promised: Chapter 3! Thanks so much to Roadrunnerz, jenron12, solveariddle, and Water-please, for your wonderful reviews - I'm so glad to hear I'm doing the characters justice, and that (so far) the story has your attention. This chapter is a little longer, and brings in a few more characters than we've seen so far, so I hope everyone's voices ring true! Oh, and... Sorry about the language, which really is sort of - well, there are a lot of f-bombs flying around right now. But I'm trying to remain true to Cal's character and, in this situation, I can't imagine he would be monitoring himself too much when it comes to cursing. _

Chapter Three

"Eat this," Foster said. They were in the waiting room at D.C. General, alongside about ten other people in varying degrees of distress. The seats were hard plastic, the walls were painted a pale shit green, and - as far as Cal could tell - the hands on the clock mounted above them hadn't moved in days. Gill handed him a steaming cup of something that smelled god awful. He pushed it back at her, glaring at the clock.

"How much longer, do you think?" he asked.

Gillian shook her head. "They said it could be a while," she reminded him. He nodded, but she knew it wouldn't matter. In five minutes, he would ask again.

She sat down beside him in one of the uncomfortable chairs. Cal stood. Paced the floor. Sitting across the waiting room were Eli Loker and Ria Torres, who had taken their lunch hours to come here and wait for news Gillian knew wouldn't be coming for some time. While Cal continued to pace, Loker cleared his throat awkwardly before he and Torres stood, made the endless trek across the room, and sat down on either side of Gillian.

"We have to get going," Loker said quietly.

"I know," Gillian agreed. "It's fine. We need you at the office, anyway - I'll be in tomorrow to take care of anything you can't handle today."

"What about Lightman?" Torres asked. "I mean... You've gotta do something. He obviously needs a doctor."

She was right: That much was indeed obvious. Cal's shirt was torn and bloodied. Gashes ran up and down his arms and upper body from climbing through the shattered car window, though so far he had refused medical attention. It was the look in his eye that was most unnerving to Gillian, though. He was doing his damnedest to cover it, but every so often she would catch a glimpse of the emotion beneath. In all her years working beside Cal Lightman, she had never seen it before:

He was absolutely, positively terrified.

"You can stop your whispering, then," Cal said, stalking toward them. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway? I mean, I still have a business, don't I? Or did you manage to flush that down the toilet this morning while the rest of my life was circling the drain?"

Torres and Loker both looked to Gillian, who flashed them a brief look of apology. "They just wanted to make sure you're all right."

"Oh, I'm absolutely bloody terrific - don't I look it? Did you get in touch with Reynolds yet?"

"I tried," Loker said. "I mean, I put in a call. But I think he's in the field or something... No one could give me much information."

"What about the cops?" he pressed. "What've they found out about the SUV? I don't have the full license plate, but I got a couple of numbers... And they'll need to check into the other cases Zoe was handling - she has her share of enemies, same as I do."

"They're on it, Cal," Gillian said gently. "The police took your statement... They're following up on everything you gave them."

He scrubbed his palm across his chin, considering this before he shook his head. "I need to talk to Reynolds - the local police don't have the resources we're going to need. They wouldn't tell you where he was at?" Cal frowned at Loker. "I should make the call myself. The FBI won't give shit to anyone as low on the totem pole as you, but they'll bloody well tell me something." He padded down his pockets, searching for his phone before he remembered it had been lost when he was pulling Emily from the car.

"You don't need to do that," Loker said. "I'm pretty sure you'll get the same answer I did."

"Oh, you are, are you?" Cal demanded. He thrust his hand toward Loker. "Give me your damn phone."

Loker looked helplessly at Gillian. Others in the waiting room looked up warily. A gray-headed woman with two small children stood and moved the kids to the other side of the room.

"Trust me, Lightman, it's not going to make a difference."

"Give. Me. Your. Phone," Cal repeated, his voice dangerously low.

Gillian stood and met him head on, preventing any further advance on Loker. "We talked about this, Cal," she reminded him. "We're handling it."

"I just want to talk to Reynolds," Cal said. His voice rose. Everyone in the place was staring now, nurses whispering to one another in alarm. "It's my fucking firm, and my bloody contract. The FBI works for us - or we work for them, or whatever the bleeding contract is this week. If I want to talk to _my _agent - "

"How many times have I got to tell you," Reynolds said as he strode toward them, entering the room just when Gillian had been certain they were all about to be carted off by security. "I'm not _your _agent."

Reynolds' sudden appearance momentarily derailed Cal. He stood there, blinking uncertainly at the man as he tried to get himself back on track. Gillian intervened in the meantime.

"Ben - thanks for coming."

"You got my message?" Loker asked. He and Torres also stood, plainly relieved.

"No," Reynolds corrected, with just a hint of a smirk directed at Loker. "I got _Lightman's_ message. That's quite a bit you did there. You ever think about quitting this crap and taking your show on the road?"

Cal pulled himself back to the present and stepped in. "What's he talking about?" he asked Loker. Loker hesitated just a moment. Cal saw a micro-expression lasting no more than a fifth of a second flash across Torres's face: Concern. "What've you been doing?" he demanded.

Loker scratched his chin. Swallowed. "I told them I was you," he said.

"You what?"

"This is Lightman," Loker said, in a near-perfect impression of Cal's accent and tone. "I need to talk to Agent Reynolds - the bastard's supposed to be on my service, and I can't reach him. What the fuck are we paying you for, if I can't reach my own bloody agent?"

Gillian's lips twitched; she squelched the urge to smile. Cal's mouth hung open, just the tiniest bit. Torres alone didn't look surprised. Clearly, she'd heard this before.

"You called the Federal Bureau of Investigation and pretended you were me," Cal said.

"They wouldn't have given shit to anyone as low on the totem pole as me," Loker said, parroting his own words back to him.

Cal stood there for another second, caught off balance for the second time in as many minutes. He felt himself slipping toward some sort of delirium. Hysteria. His bloody intern was pretending he was him. And doing a not-half-bad job of it. He shook his head. Refocused on Reynolds.

"Right. Well - whatever got you here doesn't matter. We've got to talk. When Loker was playing at being me, he told you what happened?"

Reynolds sobered instantly. "Yeah. I was sorry to hear, man. How's Emily doing?"

"She's still in surgery," Gillian said when he didn't answer right away. "We'll know more soon."

"Good. I'm sure she's gonna be okay - she's a tough kid, right?" Reynolds said. "Listen, Lightman. I'm sorry about Zoe. She was -"

"Forget that," Cal interrupted impatiently. "I know what she was, right? I'm not thinking about that right now. We need to catch the bastards who did this."

"I've already got my people talking with the police. I told the cops the case was ours - they're cool with it. Everything's being handled." Reynolds looked at Gillian, who had just directed Loker and Torres to go. He waited until they were gone, then ushered Cal and Gillian to a more discreet corner of the waiting room. "Do either of you have any idea who this might've been?"

"I made a list," Gillian said when Cal didn't respond right away. The longer this went on, the more concerned she became for him. He was clearly in shock, his body overloaded with adrenaline from the crash and his own physical injuries. She lay a hand on his arm, but removed it when he flinched and stepped away, as though even an instant of physical contact was sensory overload. "I just e-mailed it to the officer who came to speak with us earlier - Detective Meyers. I'll send a copy to you."

"Is Smithfield on there?" Cal asked. She nodded. "What about Black - we pulled the rug out from under him, exposing that embezzling scheme last month."

"They're on there, Cal," she said. "You can look at the list later, and add anyone you think I missed."

"What about Zoe?" Reynolds said. He looked at Cal uncomfortably. "Any clue what she was working on?"

"She doesn't talk about her clients with me," Cal said. He ran a hand through his hair, still looking dazed. "I told the cops, though - her assistant would know. Talk to him. I think she was working on something with the DOJ, last month. That one was bad... She didn't come home, a couple nights. Wasn't sleeping. We got in a hell of a row..." He faded out. Reynolds looked to Gillian. She pulled him aside while Cal remained where he was, locked in the memory.

"If there's anything else you need, you can call me anytime. I'll make sure you get... whatever."

"Okay," Reynolds said with a nod. "If there's anything I can do..."

"Just catch them," she said quietly. Cal turned from them both, that restless energy burning through him once more when he caught sight of a doctor hurrying across the corridor just outside the room.

"You need anything more from me?" Cal asked, turning briefly toward Reynolds. Reynolds shook his head.

"I'll call."

"Good. You do that." Cal turned on his heel, moving fast toward the doctor. "Oi! I'm looking for information about my daughter. What the fuck is taking so long?!"

Gillian and Reynolds watched as he ran down the doctor, several nurses looking on.

"I don't envy you," Reynolds said. He shifted his focus, studying Gillian intently. "What about you? You okay?"

"Yeah," she said quickly. She took a breath and released it shakily. "It was... tough to watch - the whole thing, really. From the crash to the aftermath. I'm just worried about Cal right now."

"You think Emily's gonna pull through?" he asked quietly.

Gillian paled at the question. For the first time, she looked truly shaken. "She has to."

* * *

Gillian remained where she was until Reynolds had gone, watching as Cal finished berating the doctor and nurses and then took up pacing yet again. Everyone in the slowly-filling emergency room avoided his eye - both patients and staff. They'd been here three hours now waiting for Emily to come out of surgery, and already he had a reputation. Finally, when Gillian couldn't take it anymore, she stood. She stopped at the nurses' station briefly to speak with the woman who appeared to be in charge, explaining her situation. Then, gathering her courage, she strode across the room to Cal. He stood staring out the window, his entire body humming with energy. When she touched his arm, he started. Pulled away.

"What is it? Did you hear anything?" he demanded, studying her face intently. Searching for bad news.

"No - not yet. I want you to come with me."

"I'm not leaving her, Foster. Forget it."

"I know," she agreed quickly. "Just come get some fresh air; it will only take a minute. They know exactly where we'll be—if someone comes out or something happens, they'll come get us."

It took another five minutes of arguing the point before he finally nodded.

Gillian led him to the door, a first aid kit she'd gotten from the nurses tucked under her arm. They went through sliding glass doors, and then she led him to a bench off to the side of the building, not far from the main entrance. The cold air hit Cal like a slap to the face, bringing him back to reality—easing him out of shock, and into life as he now knew it: Zoe gone. Emily in surgery, a bullet hole in her shoulder, and her leg…

He shook his head, fighting nausea.

Foster guided him to the bench and pushed him down gently. He was grateful, suddenly, for something solid beneath his ass.

"I need to get back in there," he said.

"I know," Gill said with a nod. "But just… stay with me for a minute. Please."

She turned her body to face his. Opened the first aid kit, and touched his chin with cool, careful fingers.

"What are you doing?" he asked, pulling away.

"You won't let the doctors near you, but I can't sit there and look at you like this anymore."

"I don't need anything—"

"Yes, actually, you do," she said evenly. When he realized she wouldn't give up, he sighed and leaned forward just slightly, giving her silent permission to continue. She dabbed at the gashes in his face with an antiseptic wipe. Put ointment on his arms. Cal didn't flinch. He didn't move. His expression was the glazed, vacant stare Gillian had seen from combat veterans or survivors of extreme violence.

"Are you okay?" she asked as she put gauze on the last of the deeper cuts on his arm, noting silently that stitches probably would have been a better idea. He stared at her like he didn't quite understand the question.

"Okay?" he asked with a harsh laugh. "My wife is…" he stopped, choking on the word before he gave up trying to get it out. "And Emily's in there, fighting for her life, and if she comes out—"

"_When,_" Gill said firmly. She didn't blink—looked him squarely in the eye, and the faintest flicker of hope, of comfort, started to seep through his fog. "_When _she comes out."

"Right," he agreed. "That's what I said, isn't it? When she comes out…" He wet his lips. Fidgeted in his seat, electricity suddenly running through him. "Then I need to tell her that her mum's dead. That I'm the best she's got now."

He ran his hand through his hair. He was still trembling just slightly, his face three shades too pale.

"I know," Gill said. "But you're a lot more than a lot of kids get, Cal. You've always been amazing with Emily - you can do this. And I'm here. Whatever you need…"

Before he could respond, a surgeon appeared in the doorway. The man looked at Cal, and Gillian felt her own stomach drop. _Please, God. _

"Dr. Lightman?"

"Yeah." Cal hopped to his feet and hurried over. His limbs didn't feel like his own—nothing felt real. Somewhere far, far down, in the places he hadn't even thought faith still lived, he found himself begging… someone. _Please. _

"Your daughter made it through surgery," the doctor said.

"That's good," Cal breathed, eying him warily. "Right? That's a good thing."

"It is," the surgeon agreed. "But she's suffered major injuries. Her right patella was shattered and will need to be replaced, but we want to wait until she's more stable before performing that surgery. The bullet lodged in her scapula, but we were able to remove most of the fragments without damaging the bone. I don't expect to see any nerve damage there, and she should heal fine as long as we can avoid infection. She has a concussion from the impact of the crash, and she lost a lot of blood before we were able to stabilize her... It was touch and go for a while there."

"But she'll be all right, right?" Cal pressed. "She made it through. Her knee… her shoulder… Those are things you can fix."

"It will take time, though. She'll need multiple surgeries… Physical therapy… And even then, she'll likely always experience some pain. She has a long recovery ahead—"

"But she'll _live,_" Cal pushed.

"The next twelve to twenty-four hours, we'll watch her closely. Make sure nothing unexpected develops—no unanticipated infections or side effects of the anesthesia."

"Look, you fucking plonker—"

Gillian touched Cal's arm. He hadn't even realized she was still there. "It went well, Cal," she said. "The doctor is just trying to cover all possibilities."

Cal forced himself to breathe. She was all right. Emily was still with him. Suddenly, it felt like he'd been rung through and hung out to dry—like there was no strength left to hold him up. He found himself fighting to keep it together.

"Can he see her?" Gillian asked, because Cal found he sure as hell couldn't.

"She'll be under for at least another few hours," the doctor said.

"I want to be with her when she wakes up," Cal said, once he'd recovered the power of speech.

"Of course," the doctor agreed. "I'll have a cot brought in. But right now, I want to limit visitors to just you." He looked at Gillian like he couldn't figure out who she was. Where she fit in the grand scheme. Cal made no effort to clue the man in. "Your daughter will be disoriented when she comes to. I realize this is a difficult time… that you've suffered a great loss, but you'll need to do what you can to keep her calm."

"You mean lie to her," Cal said. It wasn't a question.

The surgeon looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps just avoid the truth, for now. Just until she's a little bit stronger."

Lie to her. Cal nodded, though he already knew it was a pointless thing to promise. Emily would take one look at his face, and she would know. Even if she didn't remember everything that had happened, even if her father was telling her the world was rainbows and unicorns, she would know.

She always did.

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock that night before Emily finally woke up, though she had been in and out of varying levels of consciousness for a few hours. Cal was asleep, his hand in hers.

"Dad?"

Cal heard her choked whisper and sat up. It took a second for him to remember where he was. It hadn't been a dream, then; this was real. He was still in a hospital. Emily was still hurt.

Her mother was still gone.

"You're all right, love," he said softly. "Don't try to move. You've got some… you had a rough morning, sweetheart."

She looked at him blankly. Panic flickered in her eyes. "What happened? I don't…" She tried to sit up, then gasped in pain. Cal was on his feet instantly, pushing her back as gently as possible.

"It's all right—I told you, you need to keep calm, Em. Lie still."

"I don't remember what happened. Was there… It was an accident, right? Where's mom?"

One look at his face was all it took, just as he'd known it would. He'd been planning on telling her later, just as the doctor had suggested. He was a deception expert—he should be able to do this one thing. And he could have, he thought… If he'd believed it was truly in Emily's best interest to be lied to. But he didn't believe that. The truth was terrifying. Brutal. But how would it be any better if it came later - and along with it, the knowledge that he'd lied to her?

She looked into his eyes and he could see the slow, horrific realization dawning. "Dad? What happened to Mom? Why isn't she here?"

"I'm sorry, darling." He sat down on the edge of the bed, stroking the hair back from her forehead. Tears rolled down his daughter's cheeks. He'd never been the kind of man who cried, himself—he saw no point to it, really. That sort of thing just earned you a boot in the arse where he came from. But sitting there while his daughter's world shattered to bits before his eyes, he couldn't remember a time when breaking down had ever been so tempting.

"I'm so sorry, darling," he said softly. And then, he sat in helpless silence, clinging to his daughter's hand as she wept.

TBC

_A/N: Next chapter will be up on Sunday. Let me know if you're still on board with the story - I'd love to hear what you think! _


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks yet again for the wonderful reviews - LTM has been off the air for a while now, so I'm very excited to find that there's still a small but devoted fan base out there who love the show as much as I do! I know things have been tense so far in the story, and I'd love to tell you they ease up in this chapter, but... Well, not quite. But soon, I promise. Hope you enjoy! _

CHAPTER FOUR

Cal stood in silhouette against the window, staring out at the world below. It was just past midnight. Gillian had always been amazed at the wonder of Cal Lightman in repose—those rare moments when he wasn't moving, fighting... Butting heads with the world around him.

"Cal?" she said. They were in a lounge adjacent to the intensive care unit—a quiet, darkened place with sofas and comfortable chairs, where families could relax near their loved ones without being trapped inside the sterile rooms.

There was a long moment of silence after she spoke. She could tell only by the faintest shift in his stance, a tensing of his shoulders, that he'd heard her at all.

"You should go home, Foster," he said, finally. "Doctors said nothing much'll happen tonight. Now that Em's been up, they think she'll be all right."

She walked across the room and sat on the sofa, turning her body so she could face him. She touched his arm gently. The barest of touches, and she could feel the tension pulsing through him even then.

"Will you sit with me?" she asked quietly. "Just for a minute."

"Not really in the mood for a chat, Foster. Maybe some other time."

"Please," she said evenly.

After a few seconds of what appeared to be deep thought, he sat. When he looked at her, the pain that lay bared—stark and fierce and devastating—actually, physically hurt her. She fought to keep the pity from her face, knowing how much he would hate it.

"I'm sorry," was how she finally began.

"Aye. Well, you know… what are you gonna do, right?" He fell silent, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. His left knee bounced up and down, his hand tapping against it. He was about to explode—or implode, perhaps. Whether inward or outward, though, Gillian had little doubt detonation would happen sooner rather than later.

"If there's anything you need… all you have to do is ask," she said. "You know that, right?"

For the first time, he met her eye. He leaned forward until he was well in her space and tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, their gazes locked. "I don't need you to take care of me, Gill." His voice was rough, quiet. "It's not your job. You always think it is—Zoe hates it, you know." He stopped suddenly. His eyes shifted from hers. "Hated. She hated it… I don't need you looking after me."

"Okay," she said with a nod.

He tilted his head. The faintest smile touched the corner of his lips. " 'Okay,' you'll leave me to myself, or 'okay,' you're just saying it and you'll still be looking over my shoulder, picking up after me and waiting by the phone if I fall to pieces?"

"What do you think?"

He rolled his eyes, that same sad smile shadowing his handsome face. "Right. Well, then… What's say we just pretend it's the first, and you go home to that prat you married before he calls in the Mounties."

"You'll call if you need anything? Or Emily needs anything?"

"No. I won't." He strode toward the door, barely looking over his shoulder with his final words. "'Cause you're my best friend, Gill. You're not my bloody savior. Go home."

He left her without another word.

* * *

Gillian drove home on autopilot that night. When she pulled into her parking space, she sat for a few seconds with the car idling, staring into the darkness. Zoe's face kept flashing through her mind—the moment when Gill got there; the sound of Emily's terrified screams; the sight of Cal, frozen. And Zoe, trapped inside the car. Dying before her eyes.

There had been this moment—this bizarre, surreal instant, when it felt like time stopped. It was the adrenaline: Objectively, Gillian understood that. The heightened awareness, the sensitivity to stimuli, the increased perception of the passage of time - all of those things were perfectly natural. Well documented. Scientifically, she had reacted in exactly the same way anyone in her situation would have. Understanding it all didn't change the way it had felt in that moment, though - how hot the flames from the other car had been on her skin; how terrified she had been. How helpless. Gillian had stood outside the car, sick at the blood and the screaming and the fumes, when Zoe reached through the window for her. Gillian knelt in the snow. Leaned in closer, trying to find a way to save the woman, while Cal tried to reach Emily.

_I did love him, _Zoe said.

_I know you do, _Gillian said. _Just relax. Don't talk - we'll get you out._

_Whatever you find out, whatever happens… Make sure he knows that.  
_

_He knows, Zoe. _The woman's hands were cold, her eyes already half-closed. Gillian fought panic. She'd seen that look before - moments before Claire stopped moving. Stopped breathing. _Just hang on, damn it. The ambulance will be here soon. _

Zoe shook her head. She opened her eyes fully, one more time. Looked at Gillian with preternatural awareness for one endless instant. _It's too late. Save Emily. _

And then, she pulled her hand back inside the car—almost as if she was retreating. Her eyes closed, once and for all. Gillian didn't need a degree to know her wounds were fatal. She stood there - frozen, torn - for sixty seconds that felt like a lifetime, watching the other woman's breathing gradually slow. The pain faded as the life drained from her face.

_I'm so sorry,_ Gillian whispered - knowing that Zoe could no longer hear her.

She left Zoe there, but Gillian hadn't been able to get the sight of her, the words that she'd whispered, out of her head. _Whatever you find out, whatever happens... _

Thinking about it now, it sounded ominous. What the hell did Zoe think they would find out?

Gillian pulled herself back to the present and took a deep, cleansing breath, then let it out slowly. Her reflection in the mirror wasn't a pretty sight—she was disheveled and worn and barely coherent.

There was a light on in the study inside, which meant Alec would be up working late. That should have been a good thing; after the day she'd had, shouldn't he be the only thing she wanted? The sheltering arms of the man she loved- the man she'd chosen to spend her life with. _  
_

She wiped away a tear she hadn't even realized had fallen, took another breath, and got out of the car.

* * *

"Gillian?" Alec called when she got in. "I'm in here."

She closed her eyes. Fought to steady her nerves. "Be right there."

She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine, if only to buy more time. After the first sip, she heard Alec come in. When she turned, he stood leaning in the doorway, studying her. The sight made her smile: The ambitious, driven Alec Foster, standing there in slippers, t-shirt, and pajama bottoms, his hair disheveled - a sure sign that he'd been running his hands through it in frustration.

"Long day?" he asked.

She actually laughed, a fresh wash of tears escaping in the process. "You have no idea."

He crossed the room in a couple of strides, his concern obvious. "Hey - come here." He wrapped his arms around her. In an instant, she was lost in the way it used to be with him; in the days when it seemed they could do anything. Before his passion for her faded in favor of a job he hated and a drug he craved. She cried on his shoulder while he stroked her hair, clearly confused. "Gill... What happened, babe? You're scaring me."

She stepped back and wiped her eyes, her breath coming in a hiccuping gasp. When she'd composed herself, her hands clenched at her sides, she finally managed to find words.

"There was an accident. Zoe and Emily... I was on my way to a meeting with Cal this morning, and- we saw the whole thing, Alec. It was... I can't get it out of my head. Cal - he watched them... He saw everything."

Fear crossed his face first, and she knew where his mind had gone immediately. Alec loved Emily nearly as much as she did. "My god- Em? Is she okay?"

"She got out of surgery a little while ago. She's going to be okay. But Zoe..." She paused. "Zoe didn't make it."

The words were barely out of her mouth before she saw the reaction on Alec's face: Just a flicker - something anyone else would have missed. Would never have been able to name.

Thanks to Cal Lightman, though, Gillian knew exactly what that expression was: Anger. Not grief. Not pity. Just... anger. It was his go-to response anytime Cal's name was mentioned.

"Dead?" he repeated numbly. "Jesus, Gillian. Why didn't you call me?"

"Everything was so crazy. I mean... the whole day has been kind of... surreal. A nightmare."

"But Emily's okay?"

She nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "They think so. There will be a lot of PT, though - there was extensive damage. Recovery won't be easy."

"And how's Cal handling all this?" Alec hated Cal- the same way that Zoe had always hated Gillian, she supposed. They were rivals, never friends. Even now, her husband couldn't keep the disdain from his voice.

"He's..." She shrugged. "I don't know- he's Cal. He keeps everything close to the vest. You know him."

Several seconds passed in silence. Alec turned his back on her and went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of wine. When he turned to face her, he frowned at whatever look he thought he'd seen on her face.

"It's just wine, Gillian."

"I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, but you were thinking it. God... I can handle a glass of wine. I'm not some degenerate junkie - I had a relapse. I beat it. That's behind us now."

She couldn't even comprehend the idea of fighting him on this for the thousandth time. She forced a patently fake, conciliatory smile. "I know. It's fine. But I really am exhausted - I'm going to bed."

He nodded wordlessly. She turned her back on him, intent only on a hot shower before curling up under her sheets and sinking into oblivion. She was barely out of the room before Alec called after her.

"You know you can't be the one to pick up the pieces here, Gill. Please tell me you know that."

She turned on her heel, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on," he said. He closed the distance between them once more, drink still in his hand. "He'll be waiting for you to swoop in now. To ease his pain; take care of Emily..."

"I'm going to pretend you aren't standing here lecturing me rather than worrying about a child we have known for years; or the death of a woman whom you, at least, called a friend. Because the alternative is frankly not something I can even think about right now."

The look on his face told her he knew he'd gone too far. He set his glass aside and pulled her into his arms. "I'm sorry, hon - you know I'm just thinking of you. I know how hard it is for you to put up boundaries where that man is concerned. But right now, you need to remember: This is Cal's life, not yours. These are his problems, not ours."

She remained rigid in his arms, her grief giving way to uncharacteristic rage. She pushed him away gently with one hand. "Well, thank you, Alec, for being strong enough to maintain my boundaries for me."

"Don't twist my words like that. You know what I mean."

She ran a hand through her hair and looked toward the bathroom. "I'm too tired to have this discussion right now- it's been a long day. I'm going to take a shower and go to bed. Are you coming?"

He gestured vaguely toward his study. "I have some more work..." How long had it been, she wondered, since they had gone to bed together? Since they'd raced each other to the bedroom; since he couldn't wait to take her, whenever or wherever they were?

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"All right," she said. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

He watched her go. She could feel his regret - Alec didn't do anger, necessarily. He did guilt and passive aggressive asides, biting little digs that ate away at her... It was part of the reason, she supposed, that she found Cal's bursts of temper so refreshing. You never had to guess where Cal Lightman stood on a subject.

"I really am sorry, Gillian," Alec called after her. "Tell Cal when you talk to him next: I'm really sorry for his loss. I can't imagine what I'd do if I was in his place."

She nodded. It was an olive branch, she knew, but right now she was too tired, too emotionally fried, to accept it.

"Don't stay up too late," she said.

"I won't. Goodnight. I love you, Gill."

She heard the words and closed her eyes as she left the room. When, exactly, had those words started to feel more like manipulation than an honest expression of his devotion?

That night when she crawled into bed, the last thing Gillian thought of was Cal's face as he carried Emily away from the burning wreckage. _You're my best friend, Gill, not my bloody savior. _That was true, she realized... Even now, she had no desire to save Cal Lightman. Unlike with Alec, it was refreshing to know that she didn't even _need _to save him. With or without her, he would get through this. He would see Emily through - because that was the kind of man he was.

But that didn't mean she would abandon him to do this alone. He had seen her through some of the darkest hours of her life... Whatever the coming months brought, Gillian vowed that she would do the same for him. They would get through this.

TBC

_I told you... Things aren't exactly lightening up just yet. Next chapter, we delve into the case a bit more - which is definitely its own brand of intense. But, I promise, there will be snippets of light - and romance, and laughter - down the road. Just, y'know... Not quite yet. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, and I'll see you back here on Wednesday! _


	5. Chapter 5

_Phew - almost didn't make my Wednesday deadline for this one! Thanks to everyone for the continued, wonderful feedback. And now, on with the show! (or the fic, as the case may be)... _

CHAPTER FIVE

"I don't understand why no one can tell me who the bloody bastards who shot my wife are," Cal said. Shouted, actually. Gillian cringed, watching as he strode toward the federal agent in the hospital corridor.

Two days had passed since the crash. As she had every morning since the tragedy, Gillian woke early, checked in at the office, and returned to the hospital the moment she was free. Predictably enough, Cal had foregone all of that and chosen to stay at his daughter's bedside—not that Gill could blame him for that. Now, finally, the first information about the shooting and the men behind it was just coming to light.

"What about satellite cameras and iphones and dashboard cams? A celebrity gets it up the ass and it's on every idiot's personal device, but no one saw the men who shot my wife to death in broad daylight?"

Cal stopped when he was toe to toe with the agent- a tall, thin man Gillian had met briefly when Reynolds introduced him the evening before. Agent Andrews. While Reynolds worked other leads on the case, Andrews was to be their liaison. The poor man didn't have a clue what he was in for, though Gillian sensed he was about to find out.

"Cal," Gillian said quietly. She put a hand at his back, attempting to calm him. He shrugged her off.

"Not now, Foster," he said. "You can't expect me to be reasonable about this."

"At least listen to what he has to say, then," she said evenly.

Cal shut his mouth, slightly chastened. He looked up at Andrews—a man barely in his mid-twenties, clean shaven and freshly scrubbed. The agent looked completely out of his depth.

"Well?" Cal prompted. "You heard the lady—I'm giving you a chance. What've you got?"

"We found the SUV early this morning. It was abandoned in Virginia, just outside Richmond. Looks like it was involved in an accident." He hesitated. "The, uh... the driver was dead."

"Not from the crash, though," Cal guessed. "Someone shot him, right? Did him in? He the only one you found?"

"Yes, sir."

"And nobody has any clue where to look next, I suppose. This bastard who was driving—you know who he was? Who he worked for?" The agent looked uncertain. Cal jumped on the expression in a micro-second. "The guy he worked for," he repeated impatiently. "You do know he worked for someone, don't you? Because this wasn't random. This was—"

Andrews looked at Gillian desperately. She felt badly for him—right now, she felt badly for everyone in this place. She stepped forward again.

"We have enemies—both The Lightman Group and Dr. Lightman's wife," she explained. "The likelihood that this was random violence—"

"We have eyewitness testimony," the agent said. He wet his lips, focused entirely on Gillian now. "It looks like Mrs. Lightman may have swerved unexpectedly into the SUV's lane. With someone like this, it may have been enough to trigger an incident—"

"Then why did they shoot the driver afterward?" Cal demanded. "And I told you: They were shadowing her before this. There was something wrong with our car…"

"We have experts going over the vehicle now, Mr. Lightman."

"_Doctor _Lightman," Cal all but roared. "You need to find these other gunmen. Figure out why they targeted my family."

"We'd like to talk to your daughter—" Andrews began. Cal shook his head.

"Not bloody likely. You're not going anywhere near my daughter—none of you are. I'll question her myself."

"Mist—_Doctor_ Lightman," the agent protested. Gillian put a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Why don't you just leave us for now," she suggested calmly.

"If any questioning is done—" the man continued. Gill looked him squarely in the eye.

"I'll handle it," she repeated. "Go ahead and take care of what you can… I'll call you. And you might want to tell Ben that he should report back here as soon as he can."

He nodded, defeated, then walked away.

"That's quite the Jedi mind trick you've got there, Foster," Cal said. " 'These are not the bleedin' droids you're looking for…'" He was in motion again, his body trying to keep pace with his thoughts. It occurred to Gill suddenly that even on a full-tilt cocaine high, Alec had never been as purely physical as Cal Lightman was on a daily basis, working purely off the power of his own adrenaline.

"You know you can't interview your own daughter, Cal," she said.

"I know," he said, nodding. "That's why you're going to do it for me."

"Cal- "

"Please," he said quietly. The anger was gone now, replaced with exhaustion and, somewhere beneath it, hidden deep, genuine fear. "You're the only one I trust with this, Foster."

She swallowed past her own trepidation, and nodded. "All right- fine. When?"

"This afternoon."

Her eyes widened. "After what Emily's been through, you can't ask her to relive this so soon. There's a reason she isn't remembering the details - she's protecting herself by suppressing those memories right now."

"You don't think I know that? If I had my way, I'd keep that memory from her for the rest of her life. But whoever did this is still out there. They killed Zoe, but they shot Emily, too - what's to say they won't go after her again? Or you? No." He shook his head, his jaw set. "I don't have any choices here, Gill. Not bloody fucking one."

* * *

Emily's hospital room was quiet when Gillian walked in at shortly after one o'clock that afternoon, video equipment in hand. She wet her lips and rubbed her damp palms on the blue dress she'd chosen that morning, took a breath, and plastered a bright smile on her lips.

The smile faltered when she turned the corner and saw Emily for the first time since the accident, though. Cal's daughter was smaller than many other girls her age - elfin, really, with those big eyes, a pert nose, and a wit and wisdom that ran far beyond her twelve years. Now, however, her face was swollen and bruised, her forehead swathed in bandages. Her right leg was suspended in traction, her arm in a sling. Emily blinked her wide eyes at Gillian as Cal rose from her bedside. She was barely recognizable.

"Wow- that bad, huh?" Emily said dryly, reading Gillian like a pro.

"I told you, it'll be a few days before you're ready for the ball, darling," Cal said easily. If he was nervous, he hid it beautifully.

Emily attempted a brave smile that fell short when her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, turning a pleading gaze to her father. "Dad, I don't think I can do this."

Cal took her hand gently and leaned forward, kissing her forehead. "Just tell Gill what you can - that's all I ask. I'll be right outside."

"Why can't you stay? Please?" Emily clung to his hand. The girl had been wildly independent for as long as Gillian had known her; this sudden departure was almost as difficult to see as the physical damage the accident had wrought.

Cal disentangled his hand, clearly in agony. Gillian stepped forward.

"I promise, sweetheart," she said to Emily, "we'll only do what you can handle. But sometimes having someone you care about with you means you're more focused on their reactions than on your own memories."

Emily nodded, reluctantly releasing her father's hand. "And you think this can help find whoever did this?" she asked.

"That's what we're hoping, love," Cal said. "But if you're not up for it -"

"No," she said quickly. "I am. I can do it. If it means I can help, then I'll do it."

"That's my girl," Cal said. He kissed her hand quickly. "I'll be just outside, Em. Anything you need..."

"I know, Dad." She struggled to sit up, gasping at the pain. Gillian subtly pushed Cal toward the door and took his place, helping Emily rearrange herself as much as possible given her injuries.

"We've got it," she said to Cal, the picture of efficiency as she set up the video camera so the frame was focused on Emily's battered face. She showed no hesitation; no fear. He studied her, searching for a sign of the grief, the pain, he knew she felt for his daughter. There was nothing, though.

Cor, but she was good.

Gillian waited until she'd heard the door close before she said anything, desperate to maintain the distance, the confidence, that Emily needed right now.

"So... How are you feeling?" she asked after Cal was gone.

Emily's lips quirked in a faint smile. The hurt was still there, though, and the kind of profound trauma Gillian suspected would only heal with time. "Seriously? That's what you're going with?"

Gillian laughed. She forced herself to relax. Emily was hurt, yes, but she was her father's daughter: It would take more than this to break her.

* * *

An hour later, Gillian stepped out of Emily's hospital room wiping her eyes. She'd barely closed the door before Cal was on her.

"What'd she say?" he demanded, his stomach dropping at sight of Foster's face. She looked nearly as exhausted as he was. "Is she all right?"

"Do you mind if we talk about this somewhere other than the hospital hallway?" she asked.

He hesitated. "I should go in - make sure she's all right, don't you think?"

"She's asleep. She has been, for about twenty minutes now... I wanted to get my notes together and make sure she was okay before I left her."

"Get your story straight before you talked to me, you mean," he interpreted. She rolled her eyes slightly.

"Possibly. She's okay, Cal. This... I mean, there's no way that what's happened in the past twenty-four hours won't leave some deep scars, but she's a strong girl. With our help, Emily will be all right."

He nodded. He looked weary and torn and broken. Gillian's heart ached for him, but right now she knew that the only thing she could possibly do to make things better was to help him find the people who had done this - the people who had torn his family apart with one single, brutal action. Before she could say anything, however, Agent Andrews appeared down the corridor and started toward them.

"Did you talk to her?" Andrews asked Gillian when he was still halfway down the hall.

Cal attempted to take the video camera from Gillian's hand, already headed in the opposite direction. Gillian held fast. "You need to let me speak with them," she said. "If they're going to be effective, you need to give them this information."

"The FBI couldn't find their ass with both hands tied behind their backs," he said loudly. Andrews glowered at them, slowing slightly.

"Cal," Gillian hissed.

"It's all right," the agent said as he reached them. "I know this is a stressful time."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Cal said. He strode toward the man, studying him intently. "You figure that out all on your own, did you? Or did you need one of those sensitivity training seminars before you came to it?"

"Look, sir - " Andrews began.

"She didn't get anything," Cal interrupted, before the agent could continue. "Sorry. Gill went in, we thought maybe she'd get some information, but then... come to find out, my daughter was too traumatized. Watching her mother die, and all. So... Bugger off, for now. I'll call you when we have something."

"So, that camera in your hand," Andrews said, focused completely on Gillian. "You didn't just use that to record an interview with the girl?"

Gillian hesitated. Cal was clearly so nerved up he was ready to jump out of his own skin, but that didn't mean misleading the FBI at such a crucial time was a good idea.

"No - I'm sorry, Dr. Lightman is mistaken. I do have an interview here."

Andrews held out his hand. For the first time, he looked genuinely put out. "I need to see it, then."

"Not without us," Cal said quickly. He stepped between Gillian and the agent. "You want to look at that tape, we need to be there. And I want it to be in our lab, where we can use the instruments that will help ensure we get everything possible from my daughter's interview."

"Sir, this isn't a negotiation - "

"You're right, it's not," Cal said. "You try and take that footage from me now and I will get every reporter I know over here and I'll tell them that you have put a personal vendetta ahead of - "

"A personal vendetta?!" Andrews said. He advanced on Cal, his own temper close to snapping. "I've never even met you before."

"Nobody has to know that," Cal said evenly. "I'm sure as hell not telling them. I want on this case. I want my hands in every bloody aspect of it, until the bastards who did this are either behind bars or, preferably, dead as a fucking doornail."

Cal half-expected Gillian to interfere. Instead, she nodded firmly when Andrews looked to her for support. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. She didn't honestly sound that sorry, though, and for that Cal was so bloody grateful he could have wept. "But I agree with Dr. Lightman on this. We have the resources and the track record - "

"And a pretty damned personal connection to the case," Andrews added bitterly.

"I'll stay out of it," Cal said. "Let the others do the work. I just want to know that my firm is handling the science. I need to know that we're doing something."

Andrews considered for a few seconds of embittered silence. When his partner - a man five or six years Andrews' senior, slightly overweight and already showing the physical signs of heavy drinking - appeared down the hallway, Cal watched the advancing man's face closely. He saw Andrews grimace out of the corner of his eye. The younger man's dislike of his partner was readily apparent.

"Let me talk to Fiske- my partner," he said briskly. "Don't go anywhere."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Cal said lightly. Andrews was barely out of sight before Cal turned his attention back to Gillian. "What the hell was that? Whose side are you on?"

She fought to keep her temper, reminding herself what he'd gone through in the past seventy-two hours. "We need them. I backed you up where I thought it was justified, but you were the one who wanted the FBI on this. Cutting them out of it now doesn't even make sense."

"Look, I have my reasons," he said quietly. He took Gillian's arm and pulled her farther from Andrews and Fiske. "Reynolds called an hour ago. They got preliminary reports back on our car - the steering was tampered with, and the brakes. That means whoever did this took the time to come into my bloody parking garage in the dead of night and fuck with my car, which means they were pretty damned determined to do some damage. How do I know whoever this is doesn't have someone working for them in the FBI?"

Gillian noticed that Fiske and Andrews had stopped conferring. Now, both men were focused on Cal with that combination of annoyance and fascination he seemed to elicit in the outside world. She took a moment to study him herself - noting the circles under his eyes, the three-day beard, the rumpled clothing. After a moment's hesitation, she touched his arm gently. Willed him to at least listen to her. "If you want to solve this, you have to trust someone. This is too important - too dangerous - for you to fall back on old habits."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning, you going rogue - distrusting the system so completely that you risk destroying yourself and everyone around you. Just because you're the smartest person in the room doesn't mean you can't use some help sometimes. Especially on this."

"Why the hell do you think I've brought you on, then?" he demanded. "Torres, Loker... Reynolds. That's not trusting no one."

"We can't do this alone," she said quietly. "I won't. I won't sit by and watch you do it, and I won't put Torres and Loker in that position. I was fine with forcing this to the FBI rather than local law enforcement, but I'm drawing a line here. We work with them, or I will not be part of this."

"You and your bloody fucking lines," he growled, glaring at her. "What are you going to do, quit? Take your toys and go home, Foster?"

She stared him down coolly. "And if I do?"

Their gazes remained locked for a few seconds while she watched Cal weigh his next argument. She could see the question on his face, as clear as day: Was it worth fighting his only ally for a non-win that would ultimately get them nowhere? His lips pressed in a tight line, a tiny glimmer of humor crept in as he took a step toward her.

"So, this is your plan, love? Instead of coddling me, you're just going to bully me through my grief?" he said.

"You said you didn't need a savior. I'm simply taking you at your word."

"Right," he said. He studied her, head hung slightly, nodding. Rather than respond, he turned on a dime, addressing the agents now conferring across the hall. "Oi. Keystone brigade, get over here. I've got a new deal for you."

TBC

_Next up: Emily's interview, the plot thickens, and it becomes painfully apparent that Zoe wasn't the only target on the killer's agenda. I'm going to try to have the next chapter up by Sunday, but may have to wait until Wednesday as I have a couple of deadlines looming large. Reviews definitely make me write faster, though! Hope you enjoyed, and thanks as always for reading! _


	6. Chapter 6

_This chapter got a tiny bit away from me, which in my experience happens with fiction sometimes. Thanks yet again for the wonderful reviews, and for sticking with the story! There are definitely some rocky times ahead for Cal and Co... _

CHAPTER SIX

"Whatever you got from Emily, we need to know," Agent Andrews said. For nearly the hundredth bloody time in the past hour. Cal started toward him; Andrews looked at Gillian pleadingly. She nodded. She held up a finger, gesturing for the FBI agent to give her a minute, and pulled Cal aside.

"I need to look at it first," he said stubbornly. "Without them. I don't need anyone with me when I analyze—"

"Cal," Gillian said quietly. She took a step closer—into his space, a trick he usually used. It was more about comfort than intimidation with her, though. It was seven o'clock in the evening, and Cal looked like he was about to drop. "You're exhausted. Emotionally, you're still in shock. And Zoe's killer is still out there. The FBI _needs _to see this. Every minute that you keep it from them, it becomes that much less likely that they will catch the person who did this."

His eyes flashed for an instant. She braced herself for a fight.

It never came.

"Yeah—all right," he said with a weary nod. "Fine. We've been going 'round about this for how long now? But I need to be in there."

"Of course," she agreed. She was reluctant, though—any idiot could see that. She wet her lips, glancing away from him for a fraction of a second. "But there are things on that tape… The other morning when Emily was with Zoe, something happened—"

"If we're doing this, we need to do it now," Andrews' partner, Fiske, interrupted. He wasn't nearly as diplomatic as Andrews; in fact, Cal was fast coming to hate the man. "You either come into the room with us or I get a unit over here and we take custody of the tape and watch it on our own. But I'm done screwing around with you people."

Cal turned on the man. "Is that so? You got some high-up muckety mucks you want to roust to make that happen? Because I'll guarantee you, the muckety mucks I know are higher."

Reynolds showed up then, striding down the hall and seeming to assess the scene in a glance. "Are we still fighting about this?"

"It's about time you showed up," Cal said. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Nice to see you're still in a good mood," Reynolds said dryly. "I was wrapping up another case. Now it's done, you've got me all to yourself. More or less. So, how about you get me up to speed? I just got a call that there's a tape you guys won't let us watch?"

Cal looked at Andrews accusingly. "Had to run and tell daddy, eh? Well, this is one time I'm grateful. All I'm saying is, I need to watch it alone first."

"No dice, Lightman," Reynolds said immediately. "You want to help with this investigation, you need to step back and let us do our jobs. We agreed that the Lightman Group could work on this—that means Gillian, Loker, and Torres can all lend a hand, but we're partners. We watch the video together. Now."

This time, it was Gillian who hesitated.

"Is there a problem?" Reynolds asked.

"No," she said. "Just… Go ahead into the conference room. We'll be in in a minute."

Reynolds took in the gravity on her face and nodded. "Sure. Just don't be long, okay?"

She and Cal stood back while the rest of the group filed into the conference room. When they were alone, she studied Cal for a moment. She had no idea how he would react to the information Emily had given her that afternoon—she only knew that she didn't want him blindsided among strangers when it came out.

"All right, Foster… You've been dancing on hot coals since you came out of Emily's room. What in bloody hell did she tell you?"

"It's about Zoe," Gillian said quietly. She swallowed hard. Cal's jaw tensed as his impatience mounted.

"What about her, Gill? For Christ's sake—"

"She was leaving you, Cal. She and Emily were fighting about it just before the shooting."

He stood there for a second, trying to catch his breath. That's what it felt like, too—like he'd been sucker punched. "Emily must've misunderstood," he said. "Kids get these things wrong sometimes. She's always been a little touchy when it comes to her mum and me."

"I don't think so, Cal."

The conference room door opened again. Reynolds looked at them apologetically. "We need to get moving on this…"

"Yeah," Cal said quickly. "Right. By all means. Let's do it."

"Cal," Gillian said, the moment the door had closed again. "If you don't—"

"No," he said quickly. "I'm fine, Foster. Whatever you found out, it's fine. Let's get this show on the road."

He left her standing in the hallway, striding into the conference room without another word. Gillian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She knew it was the wrong thing to ask, but she couldn't help but wonder how any of this could possibly get any worse.

* * *

Inside the conference room, the team—Agents Andrews, Fiske, and Reynolds, as well as Torres and Loker—was gathered around the table. Cal pulled a seat up close to the plasma screen at the front of the room, already tuning out the rest of them. Gillian brought the video file up on the screen. Before she hit play, she stood beside the screen for a moment, her focus almost exclusively on Cal.

"Just play the bloody thing, Foster," he said. "I watched my wife die two days ago, darling. If that didn't do me in, I reckon I can take this."

She nodded, looking first at the FBI agents, then at Torres and Loker, seated toward the front of the table.

"As you know, Emily Lightman is twelve years old—and very bright, very articulate for her age. There are some contextual elements of the conversation that are disordered… Which is natural, given the trauma she's been through."

"Of course," Reynolds said respectfully.

Gillian noted just how closely Torres and Loker were watching the screen; how torn Loker in particular seemed at sight of Emily's battered face, frozen before them. Reluctantly, she hit play. She had to remind herself to watch the screen, rather than Cal's reactions to it.

"So, Emily, I'm just going to ask you to go over what you remember of the… accident, two mornings ago," Gillian's voice instructed in the video. "Just speak into the camera, and be sure to let me know when you get tired. Okay?"

Emily nodded seriously. "Yeah. Okay, sure."

"Good. How about we start with something easy? Can you say something about yourself?"

"Uh—yeah, I guess. My name is Emily Lightman. I'm twelve years old. I like…" She stopped, blinking unexpectedly. Cal caught a flash of uncertainty. Regret.

"Em?" Gillian prompted.

"Right—sorry. I just… I was going to talk about, like, track—running, and field hockey. The stuff I do. But I don't really know if I do that anymore, do I?"

"The doctors have said you'll regain full mobility in time," Gillian reminded her gently. "There's no reason to think those things won't play just as big a role in your life a year from now."

Emily looked at her doubtfully, lowering her eyes for an instant. She didn't believe Gillian for a second—that much was clear. Not about this, anyway.

"Right. Well… I really love photography, too," Emily continued. "My dad gave me this old camera last year—it's pretty cool. So… I like that."

"Okay," Gillian said. "Good. Now… Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the other morning?"

"It's kind of why we're doing this, right? Go ahead."

They went through the morning routine first: Who had been where, what had been said, when everyone had left. Cal caught an instant of uncertainty when Gillian asked if the morning had been any different than any other mornings.

"Em?" Gillian prodded, still gentle. "Anything you can tell us…"

The girl looked at the camera, biting her lower lip. "Dad's going to see this, right?" she asked.

"Is there something you would rather your father didn't hear?" Gillian asked. Cal looked from the screen to Gillian—the real one, flesh and blood inside this room—as she studied the screen. Her body was tensed, her finger hovering over the fast forward button. How much was it killing her not to skip this bit?

Emily hesitated again, then shook her head. Looked down, away from the camera. "No," she said. "It's nothing… Let's just keep going."

"She's lying," Torres said. Gillian paused the video. All eyes turned to Torres, seated at the edge of her chair with her attention glued to the screen. "Something else happened, that she clearly doesn't want to talk about in front of Lightman."

"Zoe and I were fighting," Cal said quietly. Something hard and cold was locked at the pit of his stomach. "I was supposed to drive in with them, but at the last minute I told them Foster was picking me up. That's what she doesn't want to say."

Torres looked at him doubtfully. "Maybe she doesn't want to say that so you don't feel guilty, but… Why? That's information you already gave us. Emily would know that."

"You think she's hiding something else?" Gillian asked. Of course, Cal knew that she already had the answer.

"Well—she's told the story up to the point where they're _in _the car," Torres said.

"Meaning?" Cal asked.

"Meaning, she would have shown that micro-expression earlier if that was what she felt badly for leaving out," Loker said. "It has to be something that happened when she and Zoe were in the car together."

"Why don't we keep watching?" Gillian suggested. She looked at Cal, her forehead furrowed and concern clear in her eyes. "This part may be difficult…"

"Just play it," Cal said roughly.

Once more, Gillian hit play.

"Okay… So, you were in the car together. What were you doing?"

"Listening to my iPod. Mom has really awful taste in driving music. I mean, usually she's got it tuned to NPR…" She stopped. "Had, I mean. Mom always _had…_" She choked on the word, her eyes shining. Cal's fists tightened along with the knot in his gut.

"Do you want to take a break, sweetheart?" Gillian asked on screen.

"No," Emily said, brushing away her tears. "Keep going. I'm okay."

"All right. So—you were in the car…"

"Right. I was listening to my iPod. Mom was on the phone."

Cal sat up straighter in his chair.

"On the phone with whom?" Gillian asked. Emily hesitated.

"I don't know."

Another lie.

Cal's stomach felt as if it was about to bottom out completely.

"Emily, whatever you can tell us about that morning, before the accident…"

The girl looked up, suddenly defiant. Tears rolled down her cheeks now, but she kept her chin up. "Fine. Mom was talking to her lawyer, okay? She was gonna tell Dad she was moving out—she talked to me about it when we got in the car. That's why I put my iPod on; I didn't want to talk to her anymore. I told her I hated her. I told her she was ruining our family, and that she was selfish, and if she didn't care so much about her stupid job then maybe she and Dad wouldn't fight all the time."

She stopped. Her face was ghostly white, the tears flowing like rain now. There was a shuffling as though the camera was being moved, and the screen abruptly went blank. Gillian hit pause.

"I felt it wise to take a break at that time," Gillian said. "Emily was clearly in profound distress—considering her health, I decided it was important to calm her down and let her pull herself back together before we continued."

Cal nodded. He wondered, for just a second, if he might be sick. His stomach churned. Somehow or other, he managed to look up and meet Gillian's eye. "Thank you," he said quietly. He couldn't say anything more than that, but the look on her face made it clear Foster knew exactly what he was talking about. She gave him another second to pull himself together, then hit play once more.

When Emily reappeared, she looked even more worn than she had before. Something about her eyes, the lack of animation on her face, suggested to Cal that she'd been given something before Gillian began taping again. Once again, he was silently grateful that she had been there for his daughter.

"All right, sweetheart… We're almost done. But I want you to think back to that morning in the car. After you and your mom fought. She's on the phone; you're listening to your iPod. What are you listening to?"

"I was listening to, um… Grace Potter? You know her?"

"I do," Gillian said. "I like her."

"Yeah. Me, too. It was that song, 'Stars.'"

There was a rustling off-camera. Music started playing, low in the background. "This was the song?" Gillian asked.

"That's it," Emily said. She had a faint, druggy smile.

"Good. Em? Will you do me a favor and just try something? I'd like you to just close your eyes for a minute, and listen to the music. And remember that you're safe here with me—that this is a memory, nothing more. It can't touch you."

Emily obediently closed her eyes while the music continued to play.

"Now," Gillian continued. "I'm going to take you back to the accident the other day… You're going to watch what happened, the same way you'd watch a movie or a TV show. This song is playing, and you're in the car with your mom. Can you tell me what happens next?"

Emily was quiet for a few seconds, eyes closed, mouthing the words to the song.

"Emily? What do you see?" Gillian prompted when she didn't say anything.

"We're in the car. It's too hot—mom always cranks the heat. Dad hates it. I'm mad at her. She's talking on the phone. She hangs up, but I won't talk to her. The phone rings again, and it's dad. She just laughs. Teases him, like… Like she's not doing what she's doing. Like she's not gonna leave us tonight."

"What else is happening, sweetheart?" Gillian asks. "Do you notice anything happening around you?"

"Dad asks about the car. And I notice it, then—even though I didn't before. Just a little bit of a wobble, you know? Like a flat tire, but not a flat tire. And then there's this car—an SUV. A black one, one of those awful gas guzzlers Mom and Dad both hate. It's too close, though…" She stopped suddenly. Her face went ghastly white, her good hand fisted in the bed sheet. Cal realized he was at the edge of his seat; that he'd stopped breathing.

"It's just a memory, Emily… It can't hurt you, honey. What do you see?"

"They're too close. And one of them has a—he doesn't have a face. And he points a gun into our car. There's this… this explosion, and it's so loud I can't hear anything and I scream and Mom screams and I can hear Dad, he's still on the phone, I can hear him yelling for us, but he can't save us—I know he can't get to us on time. And there's another explosion. Mom's trying to get the car under control, but there's blood—I can see her blood. It's everywhere. Oh my god."

Gillian came into the frame suddenly. Tears streamed down her face, but she ignored the camera. She touched Emily's shoulder carefully. "You're safe, sweetheart. I want you to back out of that memory, okay? Just back away from it, back to the present. You're safe here."

Emily opened her eyes after another second. Gillian gathered the girl in her arms and held her tightly while she wept.

The screen went blank again.

For as much as thirty endless seconds, no one in the room spoke. Loker wiped his eyes, his gaze intent on a notebook in front of him on the table. He'd forgotten to take any notes.

Cal got up abruptly, nearly toppling his chair in the process. He strode toward the exit.

"Cal—" Gillian said.

"Give me a minute," he said.

The door slammed behind him. Everyone else in the room remained there, locked in profound silence, for another minute.

"I don't know how helpful that's gonna be," Reynolds finally said.

"When we were off camera again," Gillian said, "I got a little bit more from her. The men who had no faces? There were three of them in the vehicle. They all wore black ski masks. Emily thinks one of them called Zoe by name. And when one of the bullets hit Emily's shoulder, the one in the back yelled at them. The shooter told him to be quiet. According to Emily, he said: 'Shut up, Ty.'"

"Ty?" Reynolds said. "She's sure?"

"Not completely, no. But I trust the memory—it's fresh, and she was definitely still in it, even after I tried to pull her out."

"What about accents? Male or female? Any idea of age?"

"All male, and she thought they sounded young. Maybe late teens. Inner city is how she described them."

"Race?" Reynolds asked.

"She couldn't see faces, and they wore black gloves. But she said she could see the skin around the eyeholes in the shooter's mask. She thinks he was white."

Reynolds considered this for a moment, massaging the back of his neck as he reviewed his notes. "This is good," he finally said. "Thank you. This is actually a good start."

"Good. I'm glad," Gillian said. She glanced at the door, then back at the others in the room. "Is there anything else I can answer for you?"

"No," Reynolds said with a shake of his head. "I think we're good for now. Let us chase down a couple of leads. I'm gonna give the local boys a call, see if we can round up some uniforms to watch the place in case Zoe wasn't the only target. They don't have a ton of resources right now, though, so it might not be a bad idea to look into private security for a while. You need any numbers?"

"No- we have a place we use," Gillian said. "I'll call them now."

"Good. But first, uh..." He looked uncomfortable. "Are you gonna check on Lightman? He doesn't look so good. It's been… what, going on fifty-six hours since the crash? Has he slept at all? Eaten?"

"No. This is all still new—he's adjusting to a major shock."

"And that bomb Emily dropped won't make it any easier," Loker said.

"I know," Gillian agreed. "But there was no way he wouldn't find out…" She started toward the door. "I'm just going to talk to him. Ben, you have my number—just call if you need anything else. Ria, Eli, I'd like you to start going through old cases for any mention of someone who might fit the description I just gave."

She left without waiting for acknowledgment.

Cal wasn't in his office when Gillian got there—or at least he wasn't at his desk. The sound of the toilet flushing reassured her that he hadn't gone far. She went to the office kitchen and put on a pot of water, waiting impatiently for it to boil. The memory of Emily's tears, the pain on the girl's face, haunted her. There had been no alternative; she knew that, logically. But forcing Emily to revisit the trauma of her mother's death when the wounds were still so fresh had felt… cruel. Gillian had never been good at watching anyone suffer—not as a child, and not now. That empathy had made her one hell of a psychologist, but it also ensured that her work haunted her long after the workdays ended.

That was one of the major reasons Alec had been so pleased when she'd said she was going into business in the private sector with Cal. _You're too soft for this work, Gilly. It's eating you up. Work with Lightman for a while—figure out which fat cats are lying, and get a hell of a payday in the process. It will be good for both of us._

Of course, Alec hadn't counted on her loving this work _quite _so much. Or on just how well she and Cal would get along.

The tea kettle whistled, pulling Gillian back to the present. She poured steaming water into Cal's favorite mug, adding milk, sugar, and a teabag with decaf herbal tea—which Cal would no doubt moan over, but there was no way she was giving him caffeine at this point.

When she'd finished preparing the tea and added some biscuits she kept here for just these kinds of emergencies, she returned to Cal's office. He sat at his desk, his face gray going on green.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He looked up, an eyebrow raised. "I'm bloody wonderful, darling. Why wouldn't I be? What did I miss in there?"

"Nothing," she lied. "Ben and the other agents are going over the information they got from the recording; Ria and Eli will analyze the interview to see if they can get anything more."

He studied her carefully, searching for the lie. This was one of those instances when Gillian set aside any personal reservations about the morality of half-truths, however: Cal needed this one. She kept her eyes even with his, her face relaxed. When he didn't call her on it, she set the tray on his desk. He pushed it away, wrinkling his nose.

"That's not real tea."

"It is real tea. It's just herbal, not black. You need something on your stomach."

"That's the last thing I need. What did Emily say when you turned the camera off?"

She should have known he wouldn't give up so easily. Well, two could play that game. "How do you know she said anything?"

"You just told me. Don't answer my question with a question if you don't want me to know you're talking out your ass, Gill. What did she say?"

"Drink the tea, and I'll tell you."

He looked at her, genuine surprise on his face. The faintest glint of amusement, behind the more obvious anger. "That how you want to play it?"

"It is. Drink the tea and eat two of those biscuits, and I'll answer anything you want."

"Half the tea, one biscuit."

"It isn't a negotiation, Cal."

"The hell it isn't." He picked up one of the biscuits and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth at once, then made a show of chewing loudly. His mouth, she noted, was partially open as he did so. Gillian didn't look away, knowing that had been his intent.

"Impressive," she said dryly when he'd swallowed the last of it. That gray tinge had gone a shade greener at his show. She refused to feel badly; it was his own damned fault for being so impossible. "Now the tea."

He took a sip, grimaced, and set it back down. Gillian crossed her arms over her chest. Cal rolled his eyes and took another drink. "The least you can do is talk while you torture me. She's my bloody daughter—I've got a right to know. What did she say?"

"She saw three men in a black SUV. They were wearing masks."

His attention was instantly riveted, his face serious once more. Absently, he took a bite of the second biscuit before returning to the tea. "What else?"

"Drink more," she instructed.

"Bloody hell, Foster—"

"Drink the rest or I leave."

He grumbled unhappily, but he finished the last of the tea. "Talk."

"Come sit on the couch with me."

"What?" His eyebrows climbed his forehead.

"Please," she said. She went to the staid black couch and sat down, looking at him expectantly. His eyes were glazed. When he stood, he stumbled slightly. Grabbed the back of his chair for support.

"What the—"

"You're tired, Cal," she said. She kept her voice low, even. Hypnotic was the word Cal used for this particular tone. "Come sit down."

He blinked hard, trying to clear his mind. The room had blurred at the edges. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," she lied. Gillian's own stomach wasn't faring so well. She watched as he tried to work out what was happening, cataloging his physical reactions. "Please, Cal. Come sit." She stood and went to him then. Guided him to the sofa. He didn't resist.

When he sat down heavily, she knew she'd succeeded. "You drugged me," he slurred, studying her in surprise. "You fucking drugged me."

"You need to let the FBI handle what comes next," she said, keeping her voice even. This was a betrayal—she knew that. But Gillian hadn't been able to think of an alternative.

She pushed him down gently and resituated him until he was lying down. When he still didn't struggle, she removed his shoes. Took a blanket from the back of the sofa, and spread it over him. His eyes sank shut. She thought he was already out, but he caught her by the wrist with surprising strength as she started to walk away. When he looked at her, his eyes were unfocused.

"What did you find out, Gill?" he asked quietly.

"Lonnie Cargill," she said, just as quiet. "I think he's the one behind this."

He blinked rapidly. Tried to push himself back up. The fear on his face was unmistakable, so potent the drugs masked it only slightly. "He's in prison- Life. Max security. There's no way..."

Gillian returned to the sofa and pushed him back down. "The FBI will handle this. You need to rest. They'll figure this out."

He still wasn't going down. Jesus, he was stubborn. The dose she'd given him would have been enough to take down a man twice his size, and yet here he was, clinging to consciousness. After another moment of appraisal, she made a snap decision. With a sigh, Gillian toed off her heels. She maneuvered Cal so that he was sitting up just slightly, and then sat down at the end of the sofa. She pulled him back down until his head rested in her lap.

"I need to…"

"Sshh," she said softly. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. His eyes sank shut. She could feel his warmth through her dress. His head was already heavy. "The world can take care of itself for a few hours, Cal."

"Gill," he said, after a few seconds. He'd stopped struggling—stopped fighting the drug at last.

"Yes, Cal?"

He shifted to his side, his head still pillowed in her lap. Her hand remained in his hair. He took a breath. Let it out slowly. "If they don't get Cargill—if he gets away, and I could have done something?" His words were still slurred, but she could sense the weight of them. She tensed. Swallowed hard.

"I know," she said.

"Bears saying anyway," he said. His eyes were closed now. His breathing deeper. "If the feds lose him because of this, I'll never bloody forgive you."

Those were his last words before sleep claimed him. They seemed to echo in the room once he'd gone under, gnawing at Gillian. She didn't feel guilty—she realized that now. She was terrified of the repercussions this act might have; the impact it might have on her friendship with Cal… But she hadn't been wrong to do it. Of that, at least, she had no doubt.

She slipped her cell phone from her purse and hit number five on speed dial. Reynolds answered almost immediately.

"You think of anything else?" he asked.

"I have a name for you. I didn't want to say it in front of Cal or the others—you need to pursue this quietly. There's a man named Lonnie Cargill…"

_TBC _

_I know I promised danger in this chapter, but I promise, it's coming. Next up: Loker and Torres, doing their own brand of sleuthing. _

_Reviews are love! _


	7. Chapter 7

_And, we're back! Thanks for the wonderful reviews - this time out, we're going with some other characters, so hopefully I'll capture their voices. Thanks for reading! _

CHAPTER SEVEN

While Gillian was using her own brand of tough love on Cal down the hall at the Lightman Group, Torres and Loker were also hard at work. Every computer in the place was fired up, a long table strewn with old case files. Above them, Emily's bruised face was frozen on the giant plasma screen.

"Foster wasn't telling us something, you know," Torres said as she leafed through another pointless file. "She was holding something back."

"You got that too, huh?" Loker said.

"So, why the hell are we wasting our time going through these files? She already knows who did this."

"Because that's what she told us to do. And I personally don't want to sit here and stare at Emily's big doe eyes all day when I could at least feel like I'm contributing something."

Torres frowned, frustrated. "That name Foster gave: Ty. That was real. You could tell that, at least, was the truth. It doesn't mean anything to you?"

"Not really. If the guys called Zoe by name, though, and they went after her car, it stands to reason that they were targeting her."

"Makes sense," Torres agreed. "But if that's true, how does Foster know the name?"

It was Loker's turn to frown now. "No idea." He searched through a couple of files before he pushed them away. Torres looked frustrated. On edge. Of course, she'd looked like that all day. "What do you think Lightman's gonna do now?"

"What do you mean?"she asked.

"I mean, now that Zoe's... You know, dead. And Emily's in the hospital. What do you think he'll do?"

"I think he'll survive, if that's what you're asking. It's not like he was dealt an easy hand from the start, right? He's not gonna fold now."

"I know that," Loker said quickly. "I wasn't saying he wouldn't survive."

Torres looked at him, clueless. "Then what are you saying?"

"I'm just curious how he'll cope, that's all. I mean... single dad with a seriously injured daughter, running his own company... It's a lot to take on alone."

"He's not alone, though," she pointed out. "He's got us. And Foster. Hell, she's been more of a wife than Zoe for as long as I've known him, anyway."

"Yeah, but Foster's someone else's wife."

Torres shrugged. "For now, maybe."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning... Marriages don't last forever. Most of them don't, anyway. I mean, look at your dad. There's no way Foster and her husband will go the distance. And now that Lightman's single, I think the life expectancy on the Fosters just went down a few years."

"Lightman and Foster are friends," he argued. "That's all it is. You never think men and women can just be friends."

"No, they can just be friends - as long as they're both attached to someone else. The second one of them is single, though, it all goes to hell. Trust me on this."

"Once again, the voice of experience." He studied her intently, his head tilted to the side, his chin resting on his folded hands. Ria always thought he looked especially boyish when he did that - it was the kind of thing she'd expect a ten-year-old to do. There were a surprising number of things Loker did, though, that she would expect from a ten-year-old. "Tell me, O Wise One, which crappy relationship gone bad did you get this insight from?"

"I got that from every friendship I've ever had with a guy," she said. "And _When Harry Met Sally. _I know Lightman's not gonna be burning up the singles scene anytime soon, but I guarantee, the fact that he's alone won't make Alec Foster a happy man. And I give it three months before it starts to really fuck with things around here."

"You don't know that," Loker said. "But even if you're right, it doesn't have to be a bad thing. We know Gillian's not happy with her husband. Maybe this will work out for the best."

"Right," she scoffed. "Because Foster and Lightman will just ride off in the sunset? The reality is, once Foster's marriage hits the skids, Lightman will be out of there. He'll flirt with her as long as there's no shot in hell he can get her... The second he thinks it's a possibility, he'll shut down. There's no way he'd ever make a serious play for Gillian. He likes her too much."

"And god forbid you actually go out with someone you like," Loker grumbled. Something about the way he said it made it clear he wasn't talking about Lightman and Foster anymore. "Or like someone you're going out with."

"Is that supposed to be a dig at me? What - we don't like each other?"

He raised his eyebrows, and did that annoying thing with his mouth that always drove her nuts. "Yeah, we like each other. But then, we're not going out. Right?"

It was a challenge if she'd ever heard one. Ria held his eye for a fifth of a second before she broke the gaze. She reached for the nearest folder and ordered her heart to settle the fuck down. _Friends with benefits isn't going out, _she reminded herself. "We should keep working. How many files can there possibly be, right? There's bound to be a Ty in here somewhere."

Loker pushed his chair back from the table and stood, unable to hide his annoyance. "I need a break - I'm gonna grab some coffee. You want something?"

"Yeah- the usual." She scanned the room for her purse. "Hang on, I've got some cash."

"It's on me."

"You got it last time - we agreed, fifty/fifty all the way, right?"

"Jesus, Torres. I'm not gonna hold it over your head if I spring for coffee when it's not my turn every so often."

"Just give me a second. Crap - I must have left my purse in the car."

"I've got the damn coffee, Ria," he said, stopping just shy of a shout. She stopped searching and looked at him with a single eyebrow arched. Her patented, _What the fuck is your problem? _look.

Loker gave up.

* * *

"This makes so much more sense," Loker grumbled to himself as he strode through the parking garage. It was dark outside, and the place didn't have the best lighting. "I'd so much rather wander around the frigging parking garage for half an hour than pay for a damn cup of coffee."

She was impossible. Completely impossible. Ever since that first time they'd slept together - and the time after that, and the time after, and... well, it was possible they were establishing a pattern. Still... Ever since then, she'd been a nut about making sure the relationship was an even split. If she spent the night at his place one night, he had to spend the night at hers the next time around. If he bought a beer for her, she bought one for him. He went down on her, she... Well, yeah. He wasn't complaining on that one.

He spotted a cop car not far from Torres's beast. That must be Reynolds' idea of security for the place. Not exactly comforting. Loker held up the car keys and pointed at Torres's car. If the cop cared, he gave no indication. In fact, he didn't acknowledge him at all. Loker frowned. Great. Nice to know they were in good hands.

When he was a few feet from Torres's car, he pointed the remote at it and hit the button. The headlights flashed on and off, indicating the car was unlocked. Loker shook his head. It drove him crazy that she insisted on driving to work everyday instead of taking public transportation like him. _Why would I do that? _she always asked. _I've got a car, and I've got free parking. I spent my life having to ride the bus - why would I choose to do it now?_

_Uh - how about, to save the planet? _Eli always responded. And then Torres would come out with some patently cynical response like, _We're all gonna die, Eli. Whether it's greenhouse gas or getting hit by a train, we've all gotta go sometime._

Which didn't even really make sense, and definitely hadn't been his point.

He looked through the car window before opening the door, scanning the front seat for that monstrous thing she called a purse. His hand was on the door handle when he heard footsteps racing behind him. Something ratcheted his heart rate up, just a notch.

"Loker!" Torres called from behind him.

He turned as he opened the door. "Yeah?"

"Found it," she said, holding her purse up for him to see. She was out of breath, her face flushed. "Come on - I'll walk with you."

Loker closed the door again, studying her warily. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why? I've been cooped up in there as long as you have. I've got my purse. It's a nice night. Can't I buy my friend a cup of coffee?"

"Your friend," he repeated. It sounded pissy, he knew.

She frowned. "We're not friends now?"

She stood several feet away, waiting for him. He didn't say anything until they were toe to toe again. Her hair was down, the collar of her jacket turned up. She looked tired; even tired, she looked better than just about any woman he'd ever met.

"No, it's not that," he said. "It's just... The whole thing with Zoe and Emily got me thinking."

"About?" she asked.

She started to walk away, leading him in whatever direction it was her whim to take him - because that was pretty much the way this thing went with Torres. He caught her by the arm and pulled her back. Her body went tense the second he touched her. Torres wasn't really what you'd call a malleable kind of woman.

"Can you stop, for just a second?" he asked. "Look at me."

She turned and met his eye. Her chin was tipped up, one eyebrow arched. Head tilted to the right. Defensive much? "What, Eli?"

"You know what. Talk to me, damn it. You've shut me out ever since last night, when - " _  
_

"I'm not shutting you out. I told you: I don't know what happened."

"You had a nightmare," he reminded her. He tried to keep it simple, thinking of the night before - what it had been like, waking up with her arms around him and her head on his chest. The desperate way she'd clung to him. "And you woke up crying, in my arms. And then..."

"And then, we fucked," she said defiantly. Her eyes were hard - daring him to argue. "And it was good. Why do you always have to make something out of everything? It was late, and you stayed over - "

"Because you asked me to stay. You wanted me to stay... Why is it so hard to just admit that? What the hell is so shameful about needing someone every so often? About _liking _my company? We've been sleeping together for six months now. It's okay with me if sometimes you want me around for something other than fucking."

She shook her head in frustration. "Jesus, Loker, why do you have to be such a friggin' girl about this? I had a nightmare, okay? It happens sometimes."

"How often?"

"What?"

"How often do you have that nightmare? Your father, choking you... That's what it was, right? How often does what happened last night happen to you - you waking up terrified?"

Pure fury flashed in her dark eyes. For a second, he thought she might hit him. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked away. "I'm not talking about this. And you can buy your own damned coffee."

He ran his hands through his hair. She was... nuts. That's what she was. Completely certifiable.

And brilliant. And gorgeous. And surprisingly thoughtful, at the most unexpected moments.

And haunted.

"Ria!" he called after her. He picked his pace up to just shy of a jog. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. Still pissed. "Forget it, okay? I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about... anything." He reached her side but stopped just short of actually touching her. "You still owe me a coffee, you know."

"Mm." Not even a sideways glance. Yeah, she was really pissed this time.

He bumped his hip against hers. "Come on - I said I'm sorry. I'll never try and make you talk about your feelings again."

"Promise?" she said grudgingly.

"Cross my heart." He took a breath. They resumed walking toward the elevator, in sync again. "Hey, did you check in with Foster to let her know we were taking a break?"

"I started to, but I didn't want to disturb them. We'll be back before she figures it out, anyway."

Something about the way her lip quirked told him he wasn't getting the whole story. "What aren't you telling me?"

She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the pictures, grinning. "I'll let you see for yourself."

She held the screen up for him. Loker gaped in disbelief. On the screen, Torres had captured what would definitely have to be one of the most blackmail-worthy shots Loker had ever seen: Foster and Lightman, curled up sound asleep on the couch in Lightman's office, the boss man himself dead to the world with his head in Foster's lap. Gillian had her head tipped back and her mouth open just a little; also out.

"Damn," Loker said. "So, does this make me right, or you? Because clearly, they like each other."

"They're not sleeping together, though," she said. "It's way too soon... This is definitely just friends."

"Very cozy friends. This is how it starts - or don't you remember?"

"We never started like that," Torres said. "Or don't _you _remember?" She looked around the garage, seemingly realizing for the first time where they were. "I hate it down here at night. Did you see the cop over there?" She nodded toward the patrol car, still parked in the exact same spot, the cop seated in the exact same position.

"Yeah. I definitely feel safe now - he barely even looked up when I waved."

"Same here," she agreed as they reached the elevator. She slid her hand into his. Loker looked at her in surprise. Torres wasn't a big fan of PDAs. As in, she was pathologically opposed to him so much as looking at her when they were in public, now that they were sleeping together. He punched the up arrow beside the elevator door. It lit up. Dinged, somewhere in the distance. "Hey, did you remember to lock the car back up?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said.

Torres just looked at him. The elevator doors opened. It was empty. "You're sure?"

"Mostly."

Eyebrows up. Arms crossed over her chest. Loker sighed. "Hang on, I'll be right back."

He jogged back toward the car. Fifteen feet away, he tried the remote. Nothing. He advanced another five feet. Tried again.

Back at the elevator, Torres watched him go with a hint of a smile, pushing away all that tension that was still crawling just beneath her skin. She'd never really dated a guy she liked pushing around quite so much as Eli Loker. Not that he was a complete pushover - he could be surprisingly stubborn when he wanted to be. And not that they were dating, she reminded herself firmly. She released the elevator hold button, since it seemed like this could take a while.

The parking garage really was creepy this time of night. She looked around again, her gaze settling on the police car parked conspicuously halfway down the aisle. The cop still hadn't moved. Something ugly and uneasy wormed its way down low in her stomach.

"Come on, Loker - We could have picked the coffee beans by now," she called.

"Just a second - you need a new battery for this damned remote," he shouted back to her. Finally, she heard the single, staccato beep her car made when it had successfully been locked.

"It's about time," she called back. "I was be -"

Before she could finish the sentence, the earth shook beneath her feet. The sound of an explosion, so loud it was like she was trapped inside the barrel of a gun, ripped through the parking garage. Torres was on her belly on the concrete floor in an instant. Everything slowed. She could hear fire. Smell it. Somewhere that felt far, far away, she heard Eli calling her name.

TBC

_I know, I know... What a crappy place to end a chapter! I'll be back soon with the next one, I promise - in the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the Loker/Torres twist. I'm such a fan of the two of them together, I couldn't resist adding that here!_


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